Welcome to Hyperion Records, an independent British classical label devoted to presenting high-quality recordings of music of all styles and from all periods from the twelfth century to the twenty-first.

Hyperion offers both CDs, and downloads in a number of formats. The site is also available in several languages.

Please use the dropdown buttons to set your preferred options, or use the checkbox to accept the defaults.

Don't show me this message again

The Holy Sonnets of John Donne, Op 35

Introduction

The Holy Sonnets of John Donne fling us into altogether a darker world. The set dates from 1945 when Britten had returned from his self-imposed American exile. The war was over. On his return, he (with, amongst others, Yehudi Menuhin) took part in a visit to a recently liberated concentration camp. The dark, serious songs of the Donne set seem to rise from this appalling experience of human cruelty. The poetry is of an older age, and deals with the struggle to make sense of human sexuality and fallibility in a world dominated by inhuman doctrine and hierarchy. God stands at once both distant and personal; faith is sorely tested, but remains secure. Britten finds here fertile ground. This is a profound and intellectual work, and makes great demands on both performers and audience. I find it hugely moving to perform, feeling that we and the audience have travelled a significant path together. The symmetry of the work is clear and effective. We begin with a strident, sweeping vocal line set against the rhythmic heartbeat in the piano. We shall re-meet this vocal line in the passacaglia of the last movement ('Death, be not proud') where the melodic resolution of the span of the minor ninth to octave is mirrored by the harmonic resolution from B minor to major. This declamatory, fearful, almost empty (two-part writing, by and large) opening movement leads us to the first fast movement ('Batter my heart'). The poet begs to be overwhelmed by the divine, so that his earthly preoccupations – surely devilish work – should be drowned in a sacred love. The terror of his helplessness when confronted by his human passions is mirrored in mood and motif in the eighth song ('Thou hast made me') where the melodic shape of 'Batter my heart' – three descending notes followed by a rising fourth – is reversed. Within these four symmetrical outer movements the inner five distil their shapes and structure from the outer shell. 'O might those sighes and teares' uses exactly the same melodic shape as 'Batter my heart', but Britten plays with crushing seconds to sigh and weep with the guilty lover. Agitation and despair return in 'Oh, to vex me', with a piano part composed almost entirely of seconds and fourths. The poet bewails his own hypocrisy: preaching one day, sinning the next. Rising fourths underpin What if this present. The sentiment feels uncomfortable and logically flawed: beauty can only be an outward manifestation of goodness, wicked souls are housed in ugly bodies. But the pillow-talk insincerity seems to emphasise the falsity of the sentiment. There is no hint of insincerity in 'Since she whom I loved'. Donne had risked his life and soul for the love of Anne More (grand-niece of Sir Thomas); this sonnet is a product of his grief at her death. Britten’s treatment is tender, rich and compassionate. It is the heart of the work, and a glorious song. Britten puts rests in the vocal line in, at first sight, unusual places, avoiding the obvious breathing places, or the natural ebb of syntax. Over a rocking triplet rhythm of softly shifting major chords, the result is an unbreakable extended vocal line arching over time. Trumpets peal in shimmering fourths in 'At the round earth’s imagined corners'. There is something in this song that has echoes of 'Oh my Black soule!': the slow-moving tempo, the pivot of F sharp, the death-bed setting, the arpeggiated figuration. After the desperate, breathless 'Thou hast made me', 'Death, be not proud' (one of Donne’s most well-known poems) is a homage to Purcell. Britten (and Tippett) had been bringing the work of Purcell to public attention, and both composers found themselves deeply affected by this meeting over the centuries. 'Death, be not proud' is set over a ground bass of five bars’ length. Britten’s working – especially the delightful refusal to conform to the metrical beginnings and endings of the bass – mirror Purcell’s genius when working in this form.

Recordings

The charismatic duo of James Gilchrist and Anna Tilbrook continue their exploration of English Song in 'My Beloved is Mine'. This new recording explores the song cycles of Benjamin Britten 'On this island', 'The Holy Sonnets of John Donne' and 'Se ...» More

'Bostridge is in the royal line of Britten's tenor interpreters … heard here in a veritable cornucopia of, by and large, unfamiliar, and even unk ...'The advent of Ian Bostridge has been one of the most heartening occurrences in British musical life in recent years. Here is a tenor with a wonderful ...» More

Details

Oh my blacke Soule! now thou art summoned By sicknesse, death’s herald, and champion; Thou art like a pilgrim, which abroad hath done Treason, and durst not turne to whence hee is fled, Or like a thiefe, which till death’s doome be read, Wisheth himselfe deliver’d from prison; But damn’d and hal’d to execution, Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned. Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lacke; But who shall give thee that grace to beginne? Oh make thyselfe with holy mourning blacke, And red with blushing as thou art with sinne; Or wash thee in Christ’s blood, which hath this might That being red, it dyes red soules to white.

Oh my black soul! Now thou art summoned By sickness, death’s herald, and champion; Thou art like a pilgrim, which abroad hath done Treason, and durst not turn to whence he is fled; Or like a thief, which till death’s doom be read, Wisheth himself delivered from prison, But damned and haled to execution, Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned. Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lack; But who shall give thee that grace to begin? Oh make thy self with holy mourning black, And red with blushing, as thou art with sin; Or wash thee in Christ’s blood, which hath this might That being red, it dyes red souls to white.

Batter my heart three person’d God; for, you As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend; That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new. I, like an usurpt tone, to another due, Labour to admit you, but Oh, to no end, Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend But is captiv’d, and proves weake or untrue. Yet dearely I love you and would be loved faine, But am betroth’d unto your enemie: Divorce mee, untie, or breake that knot againe, Take mee to you, imprison mee, For I except you enthrall mee, never shall be free, Nor ever chaste, except you ravish mee.

Batter my heart, three-person’d God; for you As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend; That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow me and bend Your force, to break, blow, burn and make me new. I, like an usurpt town, to another due, Labour to admit you, but Oh, to no end, Reason your viceroy in me, me should defend, But is captiv’d, and proves weak or untrue. Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain, But am betroth’d unto your enemy: Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again, Take me to you, imprison me, for I Except you enthrall me, never shall be free, Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

John Donne (1572-1631)

No 3: O might those sighes and teares returne againe into my breast and eyes

O might those sighes and teares returne againe into my breast and eyes, which I have spent, That I might in this holy discontent Mourne with some fruit, as I have mourn’d in vaine; In mine Idolatry what show’rs of rain Mine eyes did waste? What griefs my heart did rent? That sufferance was my sinne; now I repent ’Cause I did suffer, I must suffer paine. Th’ hydroptique drunkard, and night scouting theife, The itchy lecher and self tickling proud Have the remembrance of past joyes for reliefe of coming ills. To poore me is allow’d No ease; for, long, yet vehement griefe hath been Th’ effect and cause, the punishment and sinne.

O might those sighs and tears return again Into my breast and eyes, which I have spent, That I might in this holy discontent Mourn with some fruit, as I have mourned in vain; In mine Idolatry what showers of rain Mine eyes did waste! what griefs my heart did rent! That sufferance was my sin; now I repent; ’Cause I did suffer I must suffer pain. Th’ hydropic drunkard, and night-scouting thief, The itchy lecher, and self-tickling proud Have the remembrance of past joys for relief Of comming ills. To poor me is allowed No ease; for long, yet vehement grief hath been Th’ effect and cause, the punishment and sin.

Oh, to vex me, contraryes meet in one: Inconstancy unnaturally hath begott A constant habit; that when I would not I change in vowes, and in devotione. As humorous is my contritione as my profane Love and as soone forgott: As riddlingly distemper’d, cold and hott, As praying, as mute; as infinite, as none. I durst not view Heav’n yesterday; and today In prayers, and flatt’ring speaches I court God: Tomorrow I quake with true feare of his rod. So my devout fitts come and go away, Like a fantastique Ague: save that here Those are my best dayes, when I shake with feare.

Oh, to vex me, contraries meet in one: Inconstancy unnaturally hath begot A constant habit; that when I would not I change in vows, and in devotion. As humorous is my contrition As my profane love, and as soon forgot: As riddlingly distempered, cold and hot, As praying, as mute; as infinite, as none. I durst not view heaven yesterday; and today In prayers and flattering speeches I court God: Tomorrow I quake with true fear of his rod. So my devout fits come and go away Like a fantastic ague; save that here Those are my best days, when I shake with fear.

What if this present were the world’s last night? Marke in my heart, O Soule, where thou dost dwell, The picture of Christ crucified, and tell Whether that countenance can thee affright, Teares in his eyes quench the amazing light, Blood fills his frownes, which from his pierc’d head fell. And can that tongue adjudge thee into hell, Which pray’d forgivenesse for his foes fierce spight? No, no; but as in my idolatrie I said to all my profane mistresses, Beauty, of pity, foulnesse onely is A sign of rigour: so I say to thee, To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assign’d, This beauteous forme assures a piteous minde.

What if this present were the world’s last night? Mark in my heart, O soul, where thou dost dwell, The picture of Christ crucified, and tell Whether that countenance can thee affright, Tears in his eyes quench the amazing light, Blood fills his frowns, which from his pierced head fell. And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell, Which prayed forgiveness for his foes’ fierce spite? No, no; but as in my idolatry I said to all my profane mistresses, Beauty, of pity, foulness only is A sign of rigour: so I say to thee, To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assigned, This beauteous form assures a piteous mind.

Since she whom I loved hath payd her last debt To Nature, and to hers, and my good is dead, And her Soule early into Heaven ravished, Wholly on heavenly things my mind is sett. Here the admyring her my mind did whett To seeke thee God; so streams do shew their head; But though I have found thee and thou my thirst hast fed, A holy thirsty dropsy melts mee yett, But why should I begg more love, when as thou Dost wooe my soul for hers: off’ring all thine: And dost not only feare least I allow My love to Saints and Angels things divine, But in thy tender jealousy dost doubt Least the world, Fleshe, yea, Devill putt thee out.

Since she whom I loved hath paid her last debt To Nature, and to hers, and my good is dead, And her soul early into heaven ravishèd, Wholly on heavenly things my mind is set. Here the admiring her my mind did whet To seek thee, God; so streams do show the head; But though I have found thee, and thou my thirst hast fed, A holy thirsty dropsy melts me yet. But why should I beg more love, when as thou Dost woo my soul, for hers offering all thine: And dost not only fear least I allow My love to saints and angels, things divine, But in thy tender jealousy dost doubt Least the world, flesh, yea, devil put thee out.

At the round earth’s imagined corners, blow Your trumpets, Angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of soules, and to your scatter’d bodies goe, All whom the flood did, and fire shall o’erthrow, All whom warre, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despaire, law, chance hath slaine, and you whose eyes Shall behold God and never taste death’s woe. But let them sleepe, Lord, and mee mourne aspace, For, if above all these, my sinnes abound, ’Tis late to ask abundance of thy grace, When we are there, here on this lowly ground, Teach me how to repent; for that’s as good As if thou hadst seal’d my pardon, with thy blood.

At the round earth’s imagined corners, blow Your trumpets, Angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go, All whom the flood did, and fire shall o’erthrow, All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain, and you whose eyes, Shall behold God, and never taste death’s woe. But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space, For, if above all these, my sins abound, ’Tis late to ask abundance of thy grace, When we are there; here on this lowly ground, Teach me how to repent; for that’s as good As if thou hadst seal’d my pardon, with thy blood.

Thou hast made me, and shall thy work decay? Repaire me mow, for now mine end doth haste, I runne to death, and death meets me as fast, And all my pleasures are like yesterday; I dare not move my dim eyes anyway, Despaire behind, and death before doth cast Such terror, and my feeble flesh doth waste By sinne in it, which t’wards Hell doth weigh; Onely thou art above, and when t’wards thee By thy leave I can looke, I rise againe; But our old subtle foe so tempteth me, That not one houre my selfe I can sustaine; Thy Grace may wing me to prevent his art, And thou like Adamant draw mine iron heart.

Thou hast made me, and shall thy work decay? Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste, I run to death, and death meets me as fast, And all my pleasures are like yesterday; I dare not move my dim eyes any way, Despair behind, and death before doth cast Such terror, and my feeble flesh doth waste By sin in it, which it t’wards hell doth weigh; Only thou art above, and when towards thee By thy leave I can look, I rise again; But our old subtle foe so tempteth me, That not one hour my self I can sustain; Thy Grace may wing me to prevent his art, And thou like Adamant draw mine iron heart.

Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe, For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow, Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee. From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do goe, Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie. Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poyson, warre, and sickness dwell, And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well And better than thy stroake; why swell’st thou then? One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally, And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so, For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow, Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery. Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.